QUINN

LUCKY

I step out of the limo and take a bracing breath. Above me soars the skyscraper that holds Quinn’s home. Or so Fionnella tells me.

I’ve been in so many of his properties I’ve lost count. But this Upper East Side building is where he is right now.

Where fuck knows what will happen.

I’m still slightly stunned by my decision. The last minute dash to the airport temporarily silenced the vicious butterflies demanding to know what the hell I was doing.

But here, now, staring at the glass façade, I hesitate. I shouldn’t have come. Hell, I should have fled the other way. But will I ever forgive myself if, after all that’s happened, I lend a hand in the downfall of a man who clearly needs help?

The Monday afternoon sidewalk traffic is light, or as light as can be without all the tabloid frenzy that dogged me a few months ago before I escaped to Vancouver. Everywhere I went I saw my face on the news. Pictures of Quinn and me outside XYNYC alongside a censored one of me and Q in bed seemed to be pictures of the year.

Although humiliation still burns from being publicly exposed by Quinn’s film, I’ve made grudging peace with myself. Even before Fionnella pointed it out yesterday, I accepted that I walked into the Lucky/Q thing with my eyes wide open and therefore was accountable for my own actions.

It’s the Elly part of my story that tore my heart in shreds. And that heart hasn’t recovered.

Twenty-four hours. That’s all I’ve promised to give him. I owe him that for the tracker he put in the cash that helped locate Clayton. I don’t have the emotional stamina for any more. I’m still raw from the depth of his deception.

Pushing my shoulders back, I walk toward the revolving doors. I can’t linger on the sidewalk. I’m already attracting curious glances.

The doorman holds it open for me and the concierge doesn’t stop me as I head for the private elevator.

Fionnella provided me with the security code for the door. The possibility that Quinn won’t be in a state to answer his own front door isn’t something I’m prepared to deal with so I just open the slate double doors myself and walk right in.

The interior is gloomy. The air-conditioning is turned up high and the place is dark and cold and desolate.

I want to call out to him, but fear freezes my vocal cords.

What I can see of the minimalist decor looks bleak and clinical. The floor-to-ceiling glass wall is frosted, blocking out the blazing July sun.

I search the living room until I find the window remote. I’m about to click when I hear a sound behind me.

Quinn.

“Leave it,” he croaks, his voice full of rocks.

He’s a shadow in the darkened hallway, but I know it’s him just by the ferocious awareness charging through my body. It freezes me in place as it rams its presence deep, punishing me for daring to attempt to live without it.

I need to say something. I open my mouth.

“I don’t want you here, Nella. You mean well, I’m sure, but I just want to be left alone,” he says. His voice is low and raw with naked anguish, but the demand is forceful.

I swallow and take a step forward. “It’s not Fionnella. Quinn, it’s me.”

That fearsome deathly stillness shrouds him. For minutes we stay like that.

Then he stumbles forward. “Lights,” he wheezes. Then more forcefully, when the room stays dark. “Lights!”

Soft light floods the room. Contrary to what I thought, there are warmer colors in here. Browns and soft greys blend with the sharper tones. But the decor isn’t what interests me right now.

Quinn staggers forward again, his bare feet soundless on the polished hardwood floors. His black hair is overgrown and wildly unkempt, easily touching his shoulders. He’s also sporting a full beard, which against the brilliance of his eyes makes his face even more hauntingly beautiful.

He’s lost a lot of weight, his hollow cheeks not disguised by the facial hair. His body is leaner too, the T-shirt and jeans hanging off him. My gaze tracks downward.

And that’s when I see it.

The whiskey bottle in his hand. It’s half empty, the amber liquid sloshing around with his forward momentum.

“Elyse…you…no,” He stops and shakes his head. Then he smashes his lids closed and takes a huge gulp of whiskey.

“Quinn.”

He slams out his free hand, as if to push me away, and, eyes still shut, takes another drink.

“Not real,” he slurs. “You’re…not…real.”

Another desperate, memory-wiping gulp and he chokes. He doubles over in a hacking fit. I drop the control and rush toward him. He rears up abruptly, his chest heaving as he stares me down.

One arm comes up and he swipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Feverish eyes rake me from head to toe, and back again.

“Quinn. It’s me. I’m here.”

He takes a tentative step forward. And another.

He stands before me, tall, strong. Half the man he used to be. And my heart breaks. For the childhood he can never look back on without pain and sorrow. For the path he chose because he didn’t manage to do the impossible and save his beloved mother.

For what he’s doing to himself now.

His eyes are severely bloodshot, which makes the silver blue stand out even more vividly.

I’ve missed his eyes…

“Elyse?”

I nod. My throat clogs as every emotion I’ve staunchly squashed these past few months attempts to break free.

The hand he lifts shakes uncontrollably. He bunches it into a fist but the shaking doesn’t stop. “Please be real. God. Please.”

“I’m real, Quinn.”

He shudders at the sound of my voice. I walk backwards into the living room; he follows, his gaze bolted on mine. Letting him touch me would probably convince him, but I’m not ready for that. Not by a long shot.

“I came…like you asked. But if you want to talk, you need to put the bottle down.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

His grip tightens around the neck of the bottle. “No. It’s all I have. It’s the only thing that works. I can’t…you can’t take it away from me.”

This was his plan all along…find a way to end it all.

His whiskey breath washes over me and my heart somersaults in my chest.

He’s trying to drink himself to death.

“Give me the bottle, Quinn.” Alarm hardens my voice, but he’s equally as resilient.

“I said no!”

“Okay. Do you want me to leave? Fine, I’m leaving.”

It’s a lie. I do a quick search and head for the kitchen. Sure enough, he races after me.

He skates to an unsteady stop opposite where I stand at the center island, hands propped on my hips. “How about we put your precious bottle right here, on the counter? It can stay here while I fix you something to eat. I’m hungry myself. You don’t want me to starve, do you?

The act of frowning makes him dizzy. He sways on his feet. “Of course not,” he slurs. “You can eat. But I don’t want anything.”

I shake my head. “That’s not going to work for me.” I walk around and push a stool toward him. “Sit down. I’ll fix us both something to eat. You wanted to see me, Quinn. I’m here, but I have a life to live. I’m not interested in talking to you unless you’re sober. So what’s it to be?”

He eyes me for several moments. Then he sits, the bottle still tight in his grip.

I take a deep breath, move around the massive kitchen, opening and closing drawers, fridges and cupboards. I find enough to make two ham sandwiches and a bowl of mixed fruit. His eyes track me throughout, and when I sit down next to him, his whole body shudders.

“You’re here,” he murmurs.

My breath shakes out, and I hold my hand out for the bottle. “Yes, I’m here, Quinn.”

He slowly releases his stranglehold on the whiskey. I set it down out of arms reach and push a plate in front of him. He barely acknowledges it. My throat feels too tight to contemplate chewing, never mind swallowing. But I pick up the sandwich, take a bite.

He makes no attempt to copy my move. So I pluck a couple of grapes off the stem and hold them against his mouth. He slowly parts his lips and takes them. He chews without taking his eyes off my face. Heady with the small triumph, I take turns eating and feeding him.

He’s halfway through his sandwich when his face contorts. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he erupts from the table and darts out of the kitchen on surprisingly steady feet.

I chase after him. “Quinn!”

He doesn’t respond, but I see him disappear into a room at the far end of the hall. I go after him and enter the bedroom to hear the sound of gut-rolling retching.

Shit.

I’m halfway to the bathroom when the image on his large TV screen catches my eye. I stumble to a halt and stare at the shot of myself, asleep in the Hell’s Kitchen loft. There’s a time stamp on it and the footage is frozen in place. I’m more shocked than disturbed by the fact that Quinn is still in possession of images of me. That he’s watching me even after all this time.

Another bout of vomiting refocuses my attention. I enter the bathroom to find him crouched over the toilet. His skin is sallow and beaded with sweat and his whole body shakes as he expels whiskey-drenched stomach contents.

I grab a washcloth and run it under cool water. He groans and closes his eyes when I press it to his forehead. The heaving eventually stops and he collapses against the vanity.

Sinking down next to him, I’m lost as to how to help him.

“Can I get you anything?”

His hand blindly searches for mine, pulls it onto his stomach and clamps tight. “Stay,” he rasps.

He takes a deep breath, two, then he’s surging toward the bowl again.

The retching continues for the better part of an hour, by which time, I’m shaking with fear. The part of me that suspected Fionnella’s concern was exaggerated to get me to come here shrivels and dies. Quinn is in serious trouble, and as much as I’m hurting over what he’s done, I can’t help but feel for him.

The second he quiets down, I race back to the living room for my phone.

Fionnella answers immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“He won’t stop throwing up,” I blurt.

“Shit, I was afraid of that.”

“Afraid of what?” I demand.

“Possible alcohol poisoning.”

“Jesus. Does he need to go the hospital?”

“No. Keep an eye on him. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

“What?” I shriek, but she’s hung up.

She calls back when he’s in the middle of another vomiting bout. “His doctor is on his way. ETA twenty minutes.”

“Are you sure he shouldn’t be in the hospital?”

“Dr. Hanley will decide that. We don’t want to give the press another scoop unless it’s unavoidable. Elyse…are you okay?”

“No, I’m not,” I snap, worry and fear making me cranky. “It’s bad, Fionnella.”

“I know. That’s why you’re there. You’re my last hope,” she says softly, before she hangs up.

Heart in my throat, I return to Quinn. He looks like he’s passed out, but I realize he’s fallen asleep. There’s no way I’m going to get him into bed so I tug the covers and a couple of pillows off the bed and make him as comfortable as possible.

When the doctor arrives, I let him in, my breath held as he examines Quinn.

“He’s severely dehydrated, but he hasn’t quite slipped into poisoning territory.”

Relief shudders through me, and stupid tears prickle my eyes.

“When he wakes, give him a couple of these, then repeat every four hours. They’re rehydration pills.” He hands me the vial. “And obviously, no more booze,” the small, wiry man says with a wry smile. He extracts a card from his pocket and sets it on the vanity. “If anything untoward occurs, call me.”

I nod and see him out.

Quinn is still sleeping when I return. I can’t leave him, so I go in search of more blankets, and I make my own makeshift bed on the bathroom floor.

“Elyse.”

I open my eyes. He’s staring at me. His color is healthier, but faint grey lines fan his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

I blink as the pain rushes back. I’m not ready to deal with my emotions, or even his, so I ask abruptly, “How do you feel?”

He closes his eyes for a second. “Like hell. But…I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry,” he repeats.

My throat clogs all over again. I try to get up to fetch his pills. His hand jerks across the space between us and holds me still.

“Don’t go,” he pleads. “I need you to forgive me, Elyse. Please.”

I shake my head. “I need to get up, Quinn. To get your pills.”

He tenses. “What pills?”

“You wouldn’t stop throwing up. The doctor came.”

A tinge of embarrassment flushes across his face. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

He releases me. I fill a glass with water and shake out a couple of pills. He sits up and swallows them without complaint. He sets the glass down and spears me with surprisingly piercing eyes. “Elyse, tell me what I need to do. I’ll do anything.”

“Can you stand up? I love the under floor heating and everything, but it’s going to play havoc on your bones and mine if we keep sleeping on the tiles.”

He gives a short nod and staggers to his feet. In silence, we return to the bedroom and he slides into bed. I arrange the covers over him, but when I step away, he grabs my arm.

“Stay.” The voice is Quinn’s but I hear Q’s power behind it. I can’t help the shiver that runs through me. How the hell could I have missed the visceral connection? “Please, stay.”

My gaze finds his. His blue eyes plead. My head moves in a nod. “I’ll stay in the room, but I’m not getting into bed with you.”

I’m strong enough and weak enough to know that’s not a good idea. After a moment, he releases me. I retreat and settle in the wide armchair and matching footstool. Quinn turns sideways to face me and the intensity in his eyes grows.

“Can we talk?” he enquires solemnly. “I’ve missed you, Elly. God…so much.” He stops and takes a deep breath. “I need to know how to make you forgive me. Show you how sorry I am for what I did.”

“I’m not promising anything beyond saying we can talk when you’re better. Sleep now. I’ll fix us something to eat when you wake up and we’ll take it from there, okay?”

His eyes gleam. “You’re still obsessed with food.”

“And you look like you’ve given up on it.”

His expression turns mournful and dark, and he looks away. “Giving up is surprisingly easy when you have nothing left in life to look forward to.”

Even though my heart weeps, I harden my voice. “Is that what I’m here for? To watch you give up?”

He doesn’t respond. He heaves a sigh and reaches out his hand toward me. I force myself to remain still. When he falls asleep, I allow the tears to fall. I watch him breathe, dream. Knowing that the love I confessed three months ago outside the loft still burns as bright. But then, so does the hurt.

I must fall asleep too. I jerk awake to the sound of fresh vomiting. But this time, when I rush to his aid, he’s not crumbled on the floor. He stays on his feet throughout. And the bout lasts only a few minutes. When he tugs his clothes off and staggers into the shower, I follow.

“Are you okay?”

He nods, but his whole body is caught in relentless shudders. His hand slips when he tries to turn on the spray.

Without a second thought, I strip down to my panties and top and join him in the shower. If he hears me, he doesn’t make a move to acknowledge me. He just stands there with his forehead against the wall, his chest heaving.

I turn on the shower and wrap my arms around him. Hot water cascades over us, and after a few minutes, his shivering dies down enough for me to release him. I grab a washcloth and shower gel and bathe him from head to toe.

His cock stirs when I wash his groin and when his gaze catches mine, his mouth twitches.

I ruthlessly ignore the arousal that stabs me and finish rinsing him off.

When I’m done, he eyes my sodden top. “You’re wet.”

“Yep.”

I catch the hem of the shirt and tug it over my head. Wild eyes immediately land on my chest. He makes a pained sound at the back of his throat, but he still makes no move to grab me. I don’t know whether to be sad or impressed.

“No bra,” he states gruffly.

I shake my head. “Was in a hurry to get to the airport.”

He lifts one brow. I step out of my panties and rinse the transferred suds off my body. When I’m done he follows me out. The towel I intend to pass him stays clutched in my fist as I look him over. His body is still drop-jaw magnificent, but it’s suffered changes.

He catches me watching him, and a twinge of emotion passes over his face. “I couldn’t…didn’t want to live. Not without…” Wary eyes meet mine. “Elyse…”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to take the pills. You’re going to eat. You’re going to get better. Then we’ll talk. No guarantees, but I agree to talk. Do you want that?”

His nostrils quiver as he takes in a huge breath. “More than I want my next heartbeat.”

My lips purse. My eyes drop to his elbow, the almost invisible scars I noticed when I washed him. “Wanting your next heartbeat is kinda required for the talking, so maybe let’s not take that off the table just yet?”

He frowns for a sec. “Okay.”

“What does that mean, okay?”

His eyes sizzle where they’re riveted on my chest. “It means let’s get the fuck out of this bathroom and get some clothes on before this hard-on kills me.”

My eyes drop to the killer erection he’s sporting and shocked laughter bursts out of me.

Okay, so Alpha Quinn isn’t quite down and out.

I hand him the towel. His movements are a little slow, but he dries himself off just fine. He takes the pills I pass him and we head to his dressing room. He pulls on shorts and hands me one of his T-shirts.

We fall back into our bed arrangement, and he’s asleep in minutes. I take the time he’s sleeping to check messages and call Vancouver to let them know I’ve arrived safely and might be staying for longer than the planned twenty-four hours. In the kitchen, I find boxed up ready meals in the fridge that I missed before in my agitation. I heat up pasta and sauce, grate Parmesan over it and set out the meal on a tray.

Quinn is up, staring at the screen when I return to the bedroom. He turns it off when I walk in, but his gaze searches mine.

“What?” I ask as I set the tray on his lap.

He nods to the TV. “You saw what I was watching.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you mad?” he asks warily.

 “That depends.”

“On?”

“Why were you watching it?”

He catches hold of my wrist and rubs his thumb across my pulse. “I want to see you. All the time,” he whispers fervidly. “You probably want me to get rid of it, but I…can’t.”

I swallow, allowing just a little hope to build. “Why?”

“Because it helps…it keeps me…here. Because without that connection, I don’t think I can go on. I need it, Elyse. I need you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“That’s all I have right now, Quinn.”

A wave of pain breaks across his face, and the eyes that meet mine are oceans of desolation. “Don’t ask me to destroy them. Please.”

I shake my head. “You can keep them.”

“I can?” His voice is rough with hope.

“Yes. For now. Eat, Quinn.”

He polishes off the meal in record time. I return the tray to the kitchen. He takes another dose of his pills, and I grab a blanket and return to my lounger. We watch normal TV until we fall asleep.

The pattern continues for three days, then I move to the guest bedroom. Quinn doesn’t put up a fight, but his eerie silence, the tapping finger against his thigh, and flashing eyes tells me he doesn’t like the idea.

On Friday morning, I’m awakened by a knock on my door. I jerk upright, disoriented. I push my hair out of my face and croak, “Come in.”

He enters, carrying a tray. And he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with a baseball cap tucked into his back pocket. Over the past couple of days, signs of the streamlined, athletic lover who captivated my every breath have re-emerged. He may look a little gaunt, but Quinn Blackwood’s presence in my bedroom still had the power to make my belly quiver.

“You’ve been out?” I ask to cover the rampant thoughts and emotions zinging through me. One of which is that, now he’s better, I needed to think about making plans to return to Vancouver.

He nods, and my gaze is drawn to his square jaw. He shaved off his beard yesterday, but his lower face is covered with a designer stubble that makes my thighs clench with the need to experience its roughness.

“Was in the mood for fresh bagels. I slathered yours with cream cheese, just the way you like it.”

He waits until I sit up and sets the tray down before taking a seat opposite. I salivate at the smell of warm bread and he smirks as he passes me a bagel.

“Eat.”

His dominant side has been creeping back in over the last forty-eight hours too.

I finish the bagel, coffee and juice he sets before me. My breath catches when he leans forward and brushes the corner of my mouth.

“Cream cheese,” he states, before he licks his thumb.

Heat spikes through me. I watch hunger grow in his own eyes, and I know our impasse is coming to an end. Once our meal is finished, he sets the tray to one side and pins me with those piercing silver eyes. I clear my throat and focus on what I need to say.

“We need to clear up a few things.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“The whole Q thing. It was a little more than just a film to you, wasn’t it?”

Pain slashes across his eyes. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Maxwell and his friends were part of the group who bid for those types of films. I set the first one up as bait. Maxwell was the highest bidder of Q’s first production and every one after that. It gave me a kick to take his money and donate it to charity, while I knew I’d humiliate him eventually with the irony of what he was paying for.”

My heart aches but I nod. “Okay, I understand how things rolled with Q and Lucky. I’m not really upset about that.”

He breathes out. “Okay, but I still want to make it up to you. Will you let me?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

He nods again.

I clear my throat and continue. “You and Elyse…Sully offering me a job, me working at Blackwood Tower, did you—?”

“No. That was total coincidence. The ad I placed in the magazine was our only link. I didn’t orchestrate anything else. You started working at Blackwood before you came to me…to Q.”

The knot inside me eases a touch. “And getting evicted from the motel? Did you have something to do with that?”

His gaze drops and his jaw flexes once. “Yes. The moment you said yes to Q, I saw you as mine, in every way. I couldn’t have you living there. I needed to remove you from that vile place.”

“What if I hadn’t come to you?”

“I would have found a way. I’m not going to apologize for wanting you safe, Elyse. I will apologize for the way I did things. For not coming clean later, when I realized I didn’t want you to end up as collateral damage in the shit storm I created. What I did to you was wrong. So wrong. But…I was caught up in a decade-long, twisted game. Reason had long ceased to matter.”

I catch a glimpse of the mental anguish still riding him, and I touch his hand, trace it to the lines on his forearm. “Was this part of the game? Cutting yourself?”

“For a while, yes. It got me the attention I needed. It got me into Adriana Nathanson’s office.”

“God, Quinn.”

He grabs hold of my hand, and stares deep into my eyes.

“Forgive me, Elyse. I went into this with my eyes shut to everything else but getting my brand of justice for my mother. Even when I realized I wanted you to see me, maybe even save me, I still wasn’t prepared to stop.”

“But I did see you. I knew who you were. What you were. I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter. But it did.”

Bleakness flashes through his eyes. “It still matters, doesn’t it?”

I hesitate. Then go with the truth. “Yes. You need help, Quinn. To help you get over losing your mother that way. But I want to be there for you while you get that help. Maybe I need help myself. I’m not without fault.”

“No. God, you’re perfect.”

“I’m not. You know what I was…what I did in Getty Falls?” I enquire tentatively.

He nods. “I know everything. And you’re still perfect to me. God, I love you, Elyse. I was too twisted to recognize until it was far too late, until you saw nothing but the monster. But I do, baby. I love you. Inside and out, no matter what you’ve done. No matter what.”

My heart shakes, threatens to fly, but I need to state more truths. “I hated you for being two people, but so was I. You signed up for Lucky, but I wanted you to like Elyse, maybe even love her. Having that opportunity taken away from me before it had a chance to grow into something, hurt, and I lashed out at you.”

His head jerks downward, and a lock of vibrant hair falls over his forehead. I brush it back as he links his fingers through mine and stares in fascination at our fused palms. “Sending me away when the FBI rescued you cut me to shreds. The restraining order killed me.”

“I’m sorry. The shock was just too much, you know? I think I filed it because although I wanted to hate you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, or missing you. It was my way of stopping myself from craving you.”

“And do you, crave me?” he asks.

“I do,” I murmur.

His eyes fire a blaze of silver blue. “Fuck, you don’t know what hearing that does to me.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Seriously awesome things. I love you. I love you. Please forgive me. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Please give me the chance?”

“You talk a good game, Mr. Blackwood. Let me think on it for a minute.”

We grin at each other for several heartbeats before he sobers. “I’m so glad Fionnella agreed to come find you for me.”

“So am I. Is she…okay now that this is over?”

He nods. “I think we’re both ready to put it behind us, however we can.”

My heart turns over in anger and sorrow for the wrongs done to them.

“I can’t stand the thought that they did that to you and your mother.”

He looks at me solemnly for several beats. Then he nods. “Would you like me to have them killed?”

I gasp. “Quinn. Please don’t joke about things like that.”

He doesn’t reply. I look deeper into his eyes. And shiver. “Please tell me you were just joking?”

He shrugs. “You’re distressed. Forget what I said.”

I shake my head. “That’s…just on the off-chance you weren’t joking, I don’t want to have anyone killed.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I repeat incredulously.

He grabs me by the waist and pulls me beneath him. The breath is knocked out of me and when I take a deep breath, his gaze drops to my boobs. Then with monumental effort he drags it back up. “Okay.”

He stares at me for a long while. “I love you. Fuck, I never thought I’d say those words. To anyone again besides Mama.”

Tears fill my eyes. He brushes them away and drops a light kiss on my nose.

“Let’s talk about us some more. I still have a lot of making up to do.”

“Okay. I think you should know, I’m not accepting that five million.”

He grimaces and rises off the bed. He paces agitatedly for a minute before he stares at me. “I really want you to take it, Elyse.”

“Why?”

“I can’t take back some of the things I did. But this would help. Give it to Petra, or give it to your favorite charity if you want. But take it.”

“If it means that much to you—”

“It does.”

“Then okay, it goes to Petra. What next?”

He eyes me from head to toe. “I’m obsessed with you. Have I told you that?”

“Not in so many words.” I recall my images on his TV screen. “But I have a fair idea.” I smile.

He smiles back. My insides melt. “I intend to fuel that obsession. Night and day for a very long time. Do you have any objections to maybe considering making this thing between us permanent? Maybe after I get a proper therapist to sort out my…” he indicates his head.

My smile widens until I’m scared my face will burst. “Hmm, definitely maybe.”

He exhales. “Okay, do you have any more objections I need to deal with?”

“Not an objection. More like a condition.”

“Which is?”

“Am I allowed to be equally as obsessed with you?”

His smile widens by a mile. “Fuck yes.”

I laugh. My gaze tracks over his hard, beautiful body. “Quinn?”

“Hmm?”

I sit up, tug my T-shirt over my head and lie back against the pillows. “I love you.”

His breath explodes out of him, but his eyes don’t stay on mine for long. They drop to my breasts and I almost see him salivate. “I love you, too,” he croaks.

“Quinn?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you going to stay all the way over there all day?”

A ragged groan erupts from his throat as his wild eyes light brush fires all over my body.

“It’s been three months, firecracker. I’m dying to fuck you. But I also want to prolong the agony, deserve you properly. So I’m going to just stay right here for the next hour, and fuck you with my eyes. Think you can handle that?”

No. I can’t. And from the hard-on he’s sporting I don’t think he can either. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

An arrogant brow arches. “Is that a dare?”

I cup my breasts and just smile. He groans, and starts moving toward me. At the last moment, he veers toward the door. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

He dashes out and returns with a red velvet box, which he hands to me. I open it to see a delicate platinum chain, on which hangs a pink teardrop diamond.

“What’s this?”

He grins. My heart lurches. I swear I’ll never get used to a smiling Quinn Blackwood. “The diamond I promised your pussy.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. I pluck the chain off its bed, rise to my knees and hold it out to him. “Do you want to do the honors?”

His gorgeous eyes light up. “You sure?”

I nod, because there’s only one answer I can give. “Your body, your pussy.”

His whole body shudders. “My heart?”

“Your heart.”

He gets on the bed, crawls closer. “Say it all together. I want to hear it together, Elyse.”

“Your body. Your pussy. Your heart. Your soul. Your love.”

We don’t last an hour. Of course we don’t. We were insane to even attempt to try.

The moment he secures the chain around my waist and the pink diamond drops perfectly into place above my clit, he grabs my hips and drags me beneath his body. Our reunion kiss is the stuff of dreams. He kisses me until my lips are bruised and my heart screams with joy.

Then Quinn brings Q to the game. The two men I adore love me to within an inch of my life.

And as I’m thrust to the edge of the precipice, the most stunningly beautiful eyes in the world pierce mine.

“God, I love you, Elyse.”

“I love you, too.”

“Always?” My alpha demands.

“I belong to you, Quinn. Always.”

His eyes gleam with unshed tears. “Thank you for taking a chance on me, my sweet firecracker. With everything that I am, everything I hope to be for you… for us…thank you.”